


you better watch out

by stillscape, sylwrites



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, minor scenes of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-09-25 10:34:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17119730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillscape/pseuds/stillscape, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylwrites/pseuds/sylwrites
Summary: In the days after the incident, countless people ask her:what made you do it?Betty, Jughead, and a fake relationship. Featuring alleys, instinct, a viral news story, and Christmas.





	1. one

**_You better watch out, you better not cry  
You better not pout, I'm telling you why... _ **

 

 

* * *

 

In the days after the incident, countless people ask her: _what made you do it?_

The weekend news cycle is slow. Black Friday this year proves not to be substantially different from Black Friday any other year. The predicted snowfall holds off, meaning that for once the Chicago weather is nothing to talk about. The Bears, hovering just above .500 for the season, win their game on Sunday in a plodding, dull fashion that defies even the most devoted of sports analysts’ attempts to make it interesting.

And so, the incident becomes news.

 _What made you do it, Betty_? they ask her, and every time, she turns on her best Cooper Smile before answering.

“Instinct,” she says. “It was just instinct.”

The media eat it up with a spoon, and why wouldn’t they? _Instinct_ is the truth. Or half of the truth. Maybe it’s two halves of different truths which, when put together, almost make a whole truth.

Because there’s one part of the story that is not true.

The man standing slightly behind and to the side of her in all the news stories, the man with messy dark hair and long fingers that curl just so over her shoulder, is cute. They look good together on camera; everyone says so, and Betty privately agrees. By Saturday night, they’re trending on Twitter (hashtag: relationshipgoals). By Sunday night, there are at least three Buzzfeed “articles” hysterically shrieking over them (clickbait headline: “This Woman’s Reaction To Being Asked Why She Defended Her Boyfriend is Everything,” subheadline, “Your Faves Could Never.”)

The man standing slightly behind and to the side of her in all the news stories, the fresh-out-of-grad school first-grade teacher with the boyish grin and the starry blue eyes is, honestly, exactly her type.

But Jughead Jones is definitely _not_ her boyfriend.

.

.

.

Most people—or at least, most people who don’t have retail jobs—don’t work the Friday after Thanksgiving. But Betty can’t afford not to. Her private investigation business has only one good, steady client, the mid-sized law firm Lodge, Lodge, and Associates; Betty may have gotten her foot in the door thanks to her longtime friendship with the youngest Lodge, but she intends to _keep_ her foot there on her own merits.

And so, she works. Mindful of the threat of snow, she leaves her motorcycle in the parking garage, hops on the L instead, and spends this Black Friday trekking through downtown Chicago on foot. She’s interviewed most of the people she needs to for this particular case, a relatively straightforward real estate deal, and she’s ready to go home and write up a report for Monday.

The sun has long since set by the time Betty gets off the Green Line at Cottage Grove and begins the short walk east to her apartment in Hyde Park. She’s prepared for the air to be cold, of course—Betty Cooper is always prepared—but the chill in the air is so biting that she almost gives into the temptation to stop for a coffee to carry home with her.

Five minutes into her walk, she regrets resisting that temptation. Chicago isn’t called the Windy City because of its literal wind, but sometimes the moniker is apt for that reason anyway. Tonight’s blasts send dead leaves in swirls around her skinny-jean-and-leather-boot-wrapped ankles; they make the ends of her hair, loose under her favorite black wool beret, sting her cheeks. The winter will only get worse, she knows; in the grand scheme of things, tonight is not _that_ cold. By the second week of December, the current temperature will feel balmy, and she’ll have adjusted to whatever arctic vortex the city throws at her. That’s how it’s been for the last eight years of her life, since she first moved to the city for college.

To be completely accurate, that’s how it’s been for her _entire_ life. Riverdale, the tiny hamlet in upstate New York from which Betty originally hails, has even worse winters than Chicago. And thank goodness she didn’t go back to Riverdale for Thanksgiving this year. Aside from the ridiculously long trek, she knows from her mother’s pointed, anguished phone call that as of yesterday afternoon, her tiny hometown is already under an entire foot of snow. She’d never have been able to get out fast enough.

(And _that_ , Betty thinks wryly, is some kind of metaphor.)

She’d had Thanksgiving with the Lodges; Veronica, in addition to being a junior associate and Betty’s main employer, is also her old college roommate and best friend. She came home with a generous portion of leftovers, and though there’s a part of Betty that mourned the inevitable lumps in the homemade mashed potatoes, it was hard to deny the prowess of the Lodge family chef.

So no. Even if she was the only unpartnered person at the well-attended Lodge family Thanksgiving banquet, even if Veronica kept accidentally brushing Betty’s calf under the table when she tried to play footsie with Reggie, her holiday hadn’t been _lonely._  

.

.

.

As she rounds the final corner to the block with her apartment building, Betty trips over a carelessly discarded beer bottle.

“Damn it,” she mutters, as she catches herself. Bending down to pick it up, she notices a second discarded beer bottle, this one in several pieces, a few feet away. Betty carefully collects the bits of broken glass, thankful she’d grabbed her leather gloves this morning instead of the softer knit pair.

(You can take the girl out of the Maple Scouts, as they say, but you can’t take the Maple Scouts out of the girl.)

She ducks into the side alley next to her building, where the trash and recycling bins live, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

At the end of the alley, past the bins, are three figures, barely discernible in the dark: two rather large, tough fellows in studded leather jackets, closing in on a third, who’s clad in a lighter denim jacket with a fleece collar and a gray knit beanie.

 _We really should petition management to install more lights back here,_ she thinks, but even in the near-total darkness, she recognizes the man in the denim. It’s her upstairs neighbor, the one who moved into the two-bedroom unit on the fourth floor just a couple of months ago. She’s exchanged a few words at the mailbox with his roommate, but has never spoken to him. The roommate is a law student—no surprise, they’re two blocks from the University of Chicago law school and half her neighbors are law students—and it’s a fair assumption that this guy is one too.

And so she can’t quite imagine what set of circumstances have led to him being cornered by a couple of toughs at the back of their alley. She can’t imagine the circumstances, but she doesn’t have to.

The larger of the men raises a hand overhead, as if to stab, and she sees the glint of a switchblade in his grip.

She doesn’t have to _know_. She only has to act.

Instinct leads Betty to throw aside the beer bottles and grab the nearby shovel that always seems to be leaning against the wall. Glass shatters against worn brick, causing the two toughs to look up, startled. Instinct makes her keep going towards them.

“Hey!” she calls, her voice ringing down the alley as she strides towards the little group. It’s only then that Betty realizes she does not know her neighbor’s name.

Instinct tells her to improvise. Instinct tells her to use a pet name, like they’re dating.

“Hey, baby.” She raises the shovel over one shoulder, like a baseball bat, as she approaches. “You didn’t tell me we were having company tonight. Are these your friends?”

The larger man’s face splits into a wide grin. “Jones, Jones, Jones,” he says, his voice a sinister sing-song. “You’ve got yourself a girlfriend? Malachi will be happy to hear that. Gives us a little more leverage on you, huh?”

Betty’s neighbor’s jaw drops, then snaps back into place. “ _No_ ,” he blusters.

“She’s pretty, too,” continues the man, as Betty gets within a few feet of the group.

In the aftermath, Betty will realize that what her neighbor meant was _No, don’t come any closer_ , or maybe _No, this isn’t my girlfriend_.

But in the moment, she hears _No, these aren’t my friends_. And so she swings. Once, twice, three times she strikes.

“You’re out,” she says, when the larger man crumples satisfyingly at her feet. A little smile rises in Betty’s chest, fluttering wildly on wings of adrenaline.

It feels _just_ like being in a movie.

“Jesus Christ,” wheezes Betty’s neighbor, as she wheels around to take on the second guy. That one is already halfway down the alley, though, running hard and fast, and she knows she’ll never catch up to him.

She closes her eyes briefly, trying to commit the runaway man’s face to memory. When she’s satisfied she’s done her best, she turns back to her neighbor, whose unbuttoned jacket hangs loosely over a forest green sweater. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He’s shivering a little, though whether that’s from nerves or cold, she’s not sure. “This guy might not be, though.”

Betty’s smile flutters away as she nudges the man with her toe and realizes a little trickle of blood is running from his temple to the sidewalk below. “Shit,” she mutters.

.

.

.

The cops, the ambulance, and the beat reporter from the _Sun-Times_ arrive at almost the same moment.

They haven’t had long together, but by then, Betty has zip-tied the assailant’s ankles together and his hands behind his back. While they waited for him to regain consciousness, she learned a few things about her upstairs neighbor. She’s learned that his real name is Forsythe, but he goes by Jughead; she’s learned he teaches at an elementary school a mile west of their building, in a more downtrodden part of the city; she’s learned that his upbringing (coincidentally, in a different small town called Riverdale than the one she grew up in) was a rough one, his parents are (or were) in some sort of gang, and his would-be assailants are members of a rival gang. That’s all she finds out before the alley is filled with flashing colored lights, wailing sirens, and the few people in the immediate neighborhood who haven’t gone somewhere else for Thanksgiving.

Everyone clusters in the alley together, the EMTs adding a couple of stitches to the gang member’s forehead while Betty and Jughead give their statements to the cops and the reporter scribbles eagerly on a notepad.  

“I swear I don’t have any idea how they knew I was here,” he says, shaking his head. “This was all supposed to be—I mean, I was never involved in the Serpents at all, and my parents—well, my dad is out, anyway. He’s _been_ out.”  

One of the cops nods. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Jones. Ms. Cooper, you—”

Panic rises briefly in Betty’s chest. “It was self-defense,” she protests, before the cop can get any more words out. “He had a knife.”

“I was going to say ‘nice work,’” chuckles the cop. “We’ve been trying to make something stick on this one for a while. You caught yourself a full-on Ghoulie, missy.”

Relief and irritation wash over Betty in equal measure; she’s never heard of the Ghoulies, but her first impression of them certainly wasn’t favorable. “The other one got away.”

( _Missy_ , she thinks, trying not to scowl at the cop. Seriously?)

“You’re willing to testify against this one, though?”

The Ghoulie leans towards them, straining against the nickel police handcuffs that replaced the zip-ties Betty had initially used as restraints. “Careful how you answer, _missy_. One word from you, you know, I can make all your boyfriend’s troubles go away.”

Betty glances over her shoulder to Jughead, who shakes his head. “Don’t believe him, Betty. We’ll all be safer with that guy off the streets.”

“Of course I’ll testify,” she says, sticking her chin out just the slightest bit as she nods.

From somewhere behind the cops, a camera flash goes off, causing both her and Jughead to blink. A moment later, the _Sun-Times_ reporter—acting as her own photographer, apparently—elbows her way through. “Could I get a shot of the two of you together?”

Jughead obediently shuffles behind her.

“Closer,” the reporter urges. “C’mon. Show Chicago how much you love each other.”

Both Jughead’s arms land around Betty’s shoulders, and he holds her close—so close she can feel his head turn in the direction of the Ghoulie, now being bundled into the cop car.

“Jughead, your hands are freezing.” As she says the words, she realizes _all_ of him is freezing. He’s been standing outside, in the increasingly frigid air, with only a light jacket, for over an hour. He’s got a hat on, at least, but a hat can only do so much. She takes her hands from her pockets, pulls her gloves off, and tries to transfer a little warmth to his as she tugs them close to her heart.   

(She wonders, briefly, why he put a _hat_ on to go to the trash cans, but not gloves or a warm coat.

Come to think of it, she’s not sure she’s ever seen him without the hat.)

The photographer- _cum_ -reporter snaps quite a few shots, until Betty decides she’s had enough, even if Jughead hasn’t. She cranes her head around. “Let’s get you inside and warmed up, okay? You’re going to catch a cold.”

A faint look of amusement crosses his face, accompanied by one of gratitude. “Yes, dear,” he says obligingly.

His lips are nearly tinged blue around the edges, Betty notices. They’re nice lips otherwise. She notices that, too.

But then, it’s her job to notice tiny details.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jughead stirs the half-cooked tortellini shells that are floating in his pot of boiling water and glances over at his small table, where Betty, his neighbour who prior to a few hours ago had been just a pretty stranger that lived nearby and kept odd hours, sits. He looks back at the pasta and thinks, _this is not how I thought today would go._

It had been a fairly typical day, at least as far as Black Fridays can go. Jughead’s not the type to line up at Best Buy at midnight for a new laptop, or to force his way through a crowded Walmart so that he could have a screaming match with an inevitably annoyed, tired-looking woman over the last cheap TV. He’s far more inclined to take advantage of the holiday by sleeping in and enjoying the silence of an empty apartment, his roommate Kevin having gone to his dad’s for Thanksgiving.

Unfortunately, he’s also predisposed to the particular sort of laziness that results in him having no food in the fridge, so his big plans for the day - alternating between playing video games and working on his long-neglected novel - were necessarily interrupted by a trip to the corner diner for a burger. And probably some pie to take home too, he’d thought, especially if there was apple.

En route to the diner, however, Jughead would learn that it was indeed true what they (the royal _they)_ said: the Moirai were cruel mistresses.

Despite his better judgement - with the decision possibly fueled by hunger - he’d decided to cut through the alley behind his apartment building. It would shave probably twenty seconds off of his walk to the diner, but those would be twenty _precious_ seconds, to be spent not out on the chilly sidewalk but instead inside a warm hole-in-the-wall, eating a burger so close to Pop’s that if he tried hard enough, he could almost see the red pleather seats -

But then, out of the darkness, two Ghoulies had emerged.

Jughead recalls the overwhelming and immediate feeling of exasperation that he’d felt upon hearing one sneer, “Hey Jones.” _Oh come on,_ he’d wanted to whine, _how the hell does this follow me here?_ He’d spent years very intentionally distancing himself from his father’s activities with the Serpents, even if only so that he could avoid this very situation: having Riverdale follow him to Chicago, with the rival gang from his small town accost him even once he’d broken out.

 _All of this for want of a burger,_ Jughead had thought as the two Ghoulies approached menacingly. He’d steeled himself for blows (it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d gotten in the middle of Serpent business, despite all of his attempts to do the opposite), but in the second surprise of the day, they hadn’t come - at least not to him.

No; instead, his neighbour - not a woman that he knows particularly well (or at all) - had appeared, calling him ‘baby’ and acting like his girlfriend. Instantly, Jughead panicked even more: now she too would be caught in the crosshairs of whatever his dad had done (or not done) this time. Officially, his father is out of the gang that he’d once ran, but he still lives amongst the old crew and as the old saying goes, familiarity breeds contempt. As Jughead knows, the rivalry between the Serpents and the Ghoulies is deep-seated.

As it had turned out, his concern was misplaced, because his neighbour - Betty, he’d soon learn - is apparently a cool as hell Jessica Jones type in disguise as a mild-mannered Lois Lane, and she’d had both of them laid out and cuffed with zip-ties in no time.

(Later, once the police had arrived and taken their statements, he would learn that she was a private investigator of sorts. “Think Kalinda,” she’d told him. He is instead thinking  _awesome.)_

Of course, there is no proper way to thank someone who has just saved your life - or at least your skin and probably some number of your bones - so here Jughead is, boiling pasta from the corner store in a feeble attempt at repayment. He hopes she likes flavourless tortellini in no-name brand marinara sauce.

“It’s almost ready,” he tells Betty with all the earnestness and gratitude that he can infuse into his voice. “Do you want a drink?”

Betty folds her hands onto her lap and crosses her legs at the ankle, a move that Jughead immediately notices and files away under _confusing._ This friendly, harmless-looking, careful woman sitting at his table seems like miles apart from the shovel-wielding fighter he’d seen earlier in the alley.

“Sure,” she says politely. “What do you have?”

 _An excellent question,_ Jughead realizes silently. He steps to the refrigerator and pulls it open, scanning quickly. “A couple of beers,” he reports, likely left over from Archie’s last visit, “and white wine.”

When he glances over at Betty, awaiting her choice, he sees that she’s smiling. “An interesting selection,” she comments. “I’ll take the wine.”

“Cool, okay.” He takes the bottle out of the door, sets it on the counter, and then pauses at the sight of the cork. “Fuck. It isn’t twist-off.”

Betty rises from the chair she’s been sitting in. “Do you need a corkscrew?”

“No, I am sure my roommate has one.” He grimaces and pulls open the junk drawer, rooting around in the back of it. “Just not sure where it is.”

Betty steps toward him so quietly that Jughead doesn’t even notice her presence at his side until she’s _right there,_ smiling kindly with large green eyes and delicately upturned lips and pretty … everything. “May I?” she asks, gesturing toward him.

For a moment, Jughead freezes, unsure of what she means. And then, for whatever reason, he nods, still uncertain of what her intentions specifically are. She’s clearly out of his league, but when she leans toward him, there is a shameful ten per cent of him that still somehow prepares for her to be kissing him - a part that is embarrassed a moment later, when Betty reaches past him and plucks a magnetic corkscrew off of the door of the fridge freezer.

Jughead blinks. “Oh. Uh, good eye.”

She takes the corkscrew to the wine bottle and laughs softly. He decides he likes the sound. She twists it in carefully and then back with practiced fingers, and when the cork pops out near-silently, she drops it in his outstretched hand.

“Thanks for the wine,” she says.

“No problem,” he stammers, opening the cupboard that he knows is home to Kevin’s wine glasses and handing her one. She pours it carefully, then sets the bottle on the counter and takes her glass back to the table. Jughead watches her, fascinated somehow by the mundane act. She’s changed from the outfit she wore in the alley and is now in leggings and a sweater that looks unbelievably soft. He’s had to actively restrain himself from touching her arm to confirm.

Betty takes a sip. “It’s good. I assume not yours?”

“No,” Jughead admits. “My roommate’s. I’ll replace it.”

“Thank him for me, too.”

He nods at the pot of water, picks up the long-handled spoon, and begins to stir the tortellini again. “Obviously, I should be thanking _you.”_

She waves it away with her hand. “Nah. It was … fun.” At that, Jughead’s head snaps over to her direction, incredulous. Betty grins back at him, laughs a little, then tips more wine back into her throat with a shrug. “I like taking out the trash.”

.

.

.

Later, once he’s fed Betty the saddest thank-you dinner known to man and she’s left to go back to her apartment, Jughead finally has time to flop onto the well-worn couch in his living room and check his phone.

It has, incredibly, over a hundred notifications.

Some of them are from Archie - a couple of calls and many texts - and still more are from Kevin, who has clearly seen a news report describing not only his would-be attack but also Betty’s saving of him and the reference to her as his girlfriend. He replies to Kevin first, brief and quick, promising to give more details as soon as he has time. Before that, he has to talk to his dad.

FP picks up on the fourth ring, which is probably a new record for speed. “Hey Jug,” he answers, the casual tone of his greeting somehow angering Jughead even more than the near-attack from the Ghoulies had.

“What are you up to with the Ghoulies, Dad?” Jughead spits out, immediately failing to obscure the disdain in his voice.

His father’s reply is a sigh, followed by, “Nothing, I - what happened?”

Jughead takes a moment to pull up one of the news articles that has already popped up. It appears that the girlfriend-saves-her-boyfriend angle is unfortunately making what would otherwise be a mundane story of a would-be robbery or mugging go slightly viral, which Jughead is annoyed by. He’s grateful for Betty’s presence, but the one thing he does not like is attention, and this is all a little much already.

He sends the story to his dad, says, “Read what I just sent you,” and hangs up.

He drops his phone onto the coffee table and sits backward, one hand raised to pinch the bridge of his nose. Whatever the _hell_ his dad is up to now, of all of the things that he’s put his family through, Jughead thinks that it’s _this,_ this interference of Riverdale gang drama into his otherwise good Chicago life, that FP should be apologetic about.

He refuses to look at his phone for fifteen more minutes. He knows that the adolescent freeze-out is both immature and purposeless for his parents but does it anyway. It’s a small act of rebellion, but it’s all the leverage he has from here.

Finally, when Jughead does check his messages, he sees only one more new text. It’s from FP, so Jughead opens it immediately, reads it, then groans aloud. Fuck.

_Didn’t know you had a girlfriend or that she was such a badass! Can’t wait to meet her at Christmas._

 

 **to be continued.** _  
_


	2. two, a

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! Once again, stillscape has exceeded her (half of) the outline, and so we are posting this chapter in two parts. Jug's POV is forthcoming.

One hand rubbing nervously at the thigh of her jeans, Betty bites the inside of her lip. Then she looks up at her best friend. “Do you think this is going to ruin my career?” 

“The publicity?” Veronica’s brow lifts slightly, an expression Betty has no trouble reading as ever-so-skeptical. “I can’t imagine having a reputation as a notorious badass wouldn’t be to your advantage.” 

“Maybe.” 

“Definitely,” Veronica says. “Besides, you know how the news cycle goes. Public interest in your love life will mostly blow over in a few days. _Private_ interest in your love life, however—”

The eyebrow inches higher, and Betty braces herself. She’d avoided Veronica’s phone calls, texts, and emails all weekend for this very reason, but now that it was Monday and she was back at work, she couldn’t avoid her any longer. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were dating your hot neighbor. Why, in the name of all that is sacred and pumpkin-spiced, didn’t you bring him to Thanksgiving?” 

_Because we’re not dating_ hovers on the tip of Betty’s tongue, and there the words stay, stuck to the roof of her mouth like so much peanut butter. Two rough-looking, unfamiliar men in black leather jackets had been hovering at the edge of their block this morning, pretending not to look up at the general area of Jughead’s apartment windows. A second one had flitted in and out of her peripheral vision as she’d hiked to her train station, and she’s been wondering all day whether one tailed Jughead to work, too. 

She trusts Veronica with her life, but the fewer people who are in on this particular secret, the better. 

Betty swallows. “It’s just new, that’s all,” she offers lamely, and since this isn’t the first time Betty’s failed to disclose every detail of a new relationship without being nagged to do so, Veronica buys her lie hook, line, and sinker. 

If it is even a lie. Their relationship, or “relationship,” is indeed _very_ new. 

“But you’re meeting his dad at Christmas, aren’t you? That’s a big step. Are you looking forward to it?” 

Betty’s mind reels slightly; the fact that she’s going home with Jughead is news to _her_ , and undoubtedly to him as well. How on earth did Veronica… 

Then she realizes: at Thanksgiving, she’d insisted she wasn’t going home for Christmas, either. Veronica’s added this new information about a boyfriend, and inferred. 

Not trusting herself to lie convincingly this time, Betty merely nods. After all, it’s not like she and Jughead will still be pretending to date at Christmas. 

.

.

.

She’s extra vigilant as she exits the train station that night, and sure enough, after she’s walked about a block, she picks up on someone tailing her. Betty’s not a complete stranger to being followed—it comes with the territory—but it doesn’t happen terribly often; she’s better at doing the tailing herself. Her instincts have served her well in previous situations, though, and she follows them now. The thing to do, she knows, is act totally normal and unaware, which ought to give her a slight upper hand if any of the Ghoulies try anything. 

None of them do, though she notices one in a parked car across the street, nonchalantly picking at his cuticles and throwing the occasional glance up at the fourth floor. 

Sighing, Betty lets herself into the building. She dutifully empties her mailbox of the day’s junk, tucks the one actual piece of mail under her arm, and trudges up to the third floor. 

Not two minutes after she’s shut the door behind her, she hears a knock. 

Carefully, Betty unzips her boots, then creeps silently across her tile floor in sock feet until she gets to the peephole. She grabs the baseball bat she always keeps by the front door before she peers through. 

On the other side of the door, hands fidgeting nervously in the pockets of his sherpa jacket, is Jughead Jones. 

She puts the baseball bat back before she opens the door. “Hi,” she says. “You saw them too, huh?” 

.

.

. 

For lack of a better strategy, they order Thai. Jughead waves off the offer of her credit card, paying straight from the app instead. 

“Honestly, still the least I could do,” he says, as they settle on her couch to wait for the food to arrive. He’s taken the sherpa jacket off to reveal a heavy gray sweater today, and she wonders idly whether this is what he wears to teach, or whether he changes into more comfortable clothes when he gets home. Her elementary school teachers were all women, save for the gym coach—a potbellied, balding man who had worn a coordinating tracksuit every single day of the year. 

“You already made me dinner once.” 

He snorts. “That was hardly a thank-you dinner then, and it’s an even worse one now that it seems like I’ve gotten you into _this_.” 

“You didn’t get me into anything,” she reminds him gently, as she stirs a spoonful of sugar into the coffee she’s made for them both. (Jughead takes his black and unsweetened, a detail she files away for future reference.) “I got myself into it. And I can take care of myself,” she adds, bracing herself for the inevitable protest. 

“Well, obviously you can,” he retorts drily, with a pointed nod at the baseball bat resting against the wall by her door, “but you shouldn’t _have_ to.” 

A pleasant warmth settles in Betty’s stomach that may or may not have anything to do with the coffee she’s just sipped. 

“So what do I do?” Jughead muses aloud. “I called the cops, and they weren’t exactly helpful since I didn’t have any proof these guys were Ghoulies. If the Ghoulies are smart, they’ll have sent lookouts with no criminal records.” 

“I start digging,” Betty says at once. “I mean, at the very least, we need to figure out whether they’re after me or you. And you’re right; the cops probably won’t be able to do much.” If you need a thing done, she’s always believed—if you need a thing done, and done right, you’re better off doing it yourself. 

“Betty, no. This isn’t on you.” 

“What did I just say? I got myself into this. I’ll get myself out of it. With your help, of course,” she adds, when a scowl clouds Jughead’s face. “Have you talked to your parents? Did they give you any information as to what’s going on?” 

For some reason, this elicits a heavy groan. “My mom’s on radio silence. This is all I’ve really been able to get out of my dad so far.” 

He pulls out his phone, opens a text, and shows her: _Didn’t know you had a girlfriend or that she was such a badass! Can’t wait to meet her at Christmas._

“As you can see from my lack of response, I haven’t quite figured out what to tell him,” Jughead says. “What’s so funny? Why are you grinning like that?” 

“My mom,” Betty replies, pulling out her own phone to not one, but a full eighteen messages from Alice Cooper, beginning with _So this is why you refused to come home for Thanksgiving_ and ending with _I hope your beau doesn’t expect to sleep in your bedroom with you when you bring him for Christmas._

She supposes she should tell her mother she isn’t coming home for Christmas. But now is not the right moment. 

.

.

. 

Over spring rolls and chicken satay skewers, they come to the conclusion that the safest thing to do is keep up the ruse that they’re a couple, at least until they can figure out which of them has a target on their back. 

Jughead clears his throat as he jabs the end of skewer into the styrofoam takeout container. “I guess it kind of goes without asking at this point,” he says, sounding the tiniest bit nervous, “but you don’t already have a boyfriend, do you? This isn’t ruining—”

“Not at all.” 

Betty’s voice comes out a little too sharply for her own liking, and she sits up straighter. Briefly, she considers launching into the string of defensive phrases she usually flings at Veronica when the topic comes up. For one, it’s hard to date when she works such weird hours. For another, too many guys ( _boys_ , really; she refuses to think of them as _men_ ) seem to think her job and general self-sufficiency threaten their oh-so-fragile masculinity. She’s been on too many first dates that started off well but devolved into mansplaining her own motorcycle to her, or making unwelcome assumptions about her based on her tight jeans and black leather jacket. 

There’s just too much bullshit, is the problem. And Betty stopped tolerating bullshit when she was sixteen years old. Sure, sometimes—often, even—she wishes she didn’t always have to watch TV alone, cook dinner alone, give herself her own foot rubs. She wishes she had someone to hand her crescent wrenches and rags to wipe the engine grease off her fingers. She wishes she could unload about the weirder aspects of her work, the ones that aren’t appropriate to share with Veronica. 

She looks at Jughead, who sits perched on the edge of her couch, skewer still pointed at the chicken satay container on her coffee table, an unformed question on his lips. 

“I’m single,” she says simply. “Or I was. For now, I’m your girlfriend. So, Jughead. What do I need to know?” 

.

.

. 

The one person to whom they admit the truth is Jughead’s roommate, Kevin—who, as Kevin himself points out, is far too familiar with Jughead’s comings and goings to believe for even a hot second that Jughead has been carrying on a secret affair with the girl in apartment 2B. 

“I’m delighted about all of this,” Kevin tells her, when she shows up on Thursday night so that she and Jughead can go out to dinner together. He steps aside to let her in; she’s a few minutes early, and Jughead is nowhere to be seen. “I mean, aside from the thing where the two of you are apparently being targeted by gang members.” 

“You don’t seem terribly freaked out by it.” 

Kevin shrugs. “My dad’s a sheriff, so I’ve seen worse shit. But let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about you. I’ve read all the articles, of course, and I have to say, I think _I’m_ a little bit in love with Betty Cooper.” 

Betty laughs; she’s seen enough of _Kevin’s_ comings and goings to know full well he doesn’t play for her team. “I take it Jughead replaced your wine, then.” 

“He did, but I wouldn’t even care, so long as I got a front-row ticket to the show. You may be not be dating for real, but this is the most serious relationship he’s had in years.” 

“Really?” She keeps her tone casual, although she’s been dying for intel on Jughead from an outside source. She knows from Jughead that he and Kevin were buddies in college, if not exactly close friends, so they’ve known each other a while. And Kevin strikes her as a man who appreciates a good gossip session. 

“It’s not like he’s a lost cause or anything,” Kevin says hastily. “He’s just… let’s call him highly selective. And okay, yes, he gets moody. But in a moderate depressive state kind of way, you know? Not in an asshole way. He keeps a reasonably clean apartment. Smart, well-read, loves his job. Loves Tarantino a little too much—that’s a check in the negative column, I’ll admit. Also, he eats like a starving wild animal. But he’s great, really.” 

“You make him sound like quite the catch,” Betty says, laughing a little. 

“He doesn’t let people in very easily.” Kevin drops onto their sofa with a sigh, and gestures for Betty to do the same. “I’m not a hundred percent certain he even likes me, to be frank. But we get along well enough. Once he does like you, he’s loyal to a fault.” 

“So you guys went to college together?” 

Kevin nods. “Illinois. Go, Fighting Illini.” 

“Jughead doesn’t strike me as someone who’s into sports,” she ventures, and Kevin snorts with laughter. 

“You don’t even know how right you are. Although— have you seen him with all the layers off yet? No?” Kevin raises his eyebrows. “Not that I would ogle my roommate, and he’s so not my type anyway. But he’s better than you’d expect.” 

Just as Betty’s mind has begun to wander a bit, Jughead appears. Today’s sweater is burgundy, layered over what looks like a thermal henley, and topped off with a sherpa jacket—a different, darker one than she’s seen before. And the hat, of course. The hat remains on his head. 

“Whatever Kevin’s telling you,” he says, “don’t believe a word of it.” 

“I was just asking how you two met.” 

Both men’s eyes flick to a bookshelf in the corner, one that appears from here to have board game boxes stacked on the lower shelf. Jughead seems to hesitate. 

“Oh, come on,” Kevin says. “Look, if the gang stuff didn’t frighten off your fake girlfriend, I doubt this is going to. And she’s going to find out anyway.” 

“Find out what?” Betty asks. 

With a heavy sigh, Jughead turns to her. “Have you ever heard of a game called Gryphons & Gargoyles?” 

.

.

.

Parked across the street from their building is an unmarked van; it could just be a van, but it’s been there for two full days at this point, and Betty doesn’t want to take any unnecessary chances. She sticks one hand in her coat pocket, letting her fingers close over the can of pepper spray she keeps there. She slides her other hand into Jughead’s. He hesitates for a moment before letting his fingers close around hers. 

“Well, I know what to get you for Christmas, Jug. Nicer gloves and a scarf.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with these gloves,” he says. 

“They’re nearly threadbare.” 

“They still do the trick,” he grumbles, shooting a quick look over his shoulder. 

“Don’t let our tail know we know they’re there.” 

“Right, right.” 

They walk a few blocks in silence. 

“So,” she says eventually, trying to break the tension. “You and Kevin met in a role-playing game club?” 

Jughead sighs deeply. “I’m sure he did an excellent job selling my potential as a fake boyfriend. Did he describe me as a misanthropic hermit this time?” 

“No, not at all.” She swallows, hesitating. “Are you?” 

“No. I don’t mind leaving the house. I just don’t like going out for the sake of going out.” 

“That’s reasonable.” It’s more than reasonable, actually—she agrees completely. 

As they continue on, Betty tilts her chin up slightly to study his face. Not for the first time, she decides it’s a good one. When she squeezes his hand tighter, Jughead gives her the shyest of smiles in return, and her heart flutters just the tiniest bit.

“I’m not in any hurry to fake dump you, Jughead,” she says. 

.

.

.

And the thing is… she isn’t. 

By mid-December, they’ve hit a rhythm. They’re having dinner together nearly every night she’s home in time to do so, either in his apartment or hers. They go on a fake date to the Art Institute, and accidentally make a tiny trend on social media again when three separate people post pictures of them holding hands in front of Chagall’s _America Windows._

One day she meets him at his school, arriving early enough that she can watch him help his first-graders onto their buses. A little boy notices her first, pointing her out to Jughead from the lowest step of the bus, and Jughead looks up, clearly surprised when he recognizes her standing there. They travel home together, stopping for hot chocolate to warm their hands against the threatening snow.

“What made you want to be a teacher, Jug?” she asks, as she adds a sprinkle of cinnamon to the top of her whipped cream. 

He pockets a couple of spare napkins and worries one of them for a moment, buried thumb and forefinger rubbing together inside his fleece-lined denim. “My childhood was pretty shitty a lot of the time, as you already know,” he says at long last, his eyes trained firmly on her. “I think I just wanted to make a difference, you know?” 

Betty nods. 

“What made you want to be a P.I.?” 

“I thought for a long time that I wanted to be a journalist,” she says. “Both my parents are. They run the local newspaper back home. But then I realized—”

Jughead interrupts her with a chuckle. “Print journalism’s dead?” 

“A little of that, and a little of—I mean, I shouldn’t say this, but my parents are completely corrupt. Their paper isn’t just biased, it’s downright unethical. And they own the paper, so they’re not really accountable to anyone. They wanted me to come back home and work for them, and I couldn’t do it.” 

“You could’ve been a journalist at a more reputable publication,” he points out. 

“I know,” she says. “But what appealed to me about journalism was uncovering the truth. Being a P.I. lets me do that, and I don’t have to worry about my job being outsourced to underpaid freelancers. I keep my own hours, I do my own thing, I don’t have to take on any work I don’t want.” 

“So you’re not really accountable to anyone either.” 

“Yeah, I am,” she says. “I’m accountable to _myself_.” 

.

.

.

The point is, it’s nice. It’s very nice, aside from the Ghoulies that seem to hover eternally in the corner of her peripheral vision, like—well, like ghouls. 

When Kevin secretly invites her to their next Gryphons & Gargoyles game night, she shows up with a plate of homemade cookies. Her smile falters slightly when Jughead answers the door wearing what looks like a tin can crown over his beanie and an IKEA throw rug over his shoulders. 

“Betty?” he says, blinking in disbelief. 

A small crowd of similarly-attired nerds is staring at them, so she nods and leans forward to peck him on the cheek. Kevin whistles. 

“So, think I could talk you into playing with us next time?” Jughead asks, as he walks her downstairs to her apartment. He has, thank goodness, taken off the costume. 

“I don’t think so,” she says, as diplomatically as she possibly can. The game had been both incredibly convoluted and incredibly boring at the same time; much as she’s come to genuinely like Jughead, she can’t imagine circumstances under which she’d willingly sit through another session. 

He looks ever so slightly disappointed. 

.

.

.

He looks ever so slightly _disgruntled_ when she proposes he attend Veronica’s annual holiday extravaganza as her date, a reaction that knocks Betty for a slight loop. Despite Kevin’s warnings about Jughead not liking many people, she realizes now that she’d simply assumed he felt the same way about her as she felt about him. Apparently, she had been mistaken. 

“But it’ll look weird to the Ghoulies if you go alone,” he sighs. “So I’ll go.” 

He’s grumpy for the rest of the week when he can’t avoid her, and when she shows up at his door in a a poinsettia-red brocade sheath dress with silver heels and her hair in curls, he’s grumpier still—though handsome, she notes, in a dark navy suit. 

“No hat tonight?” she ventures. 

“Nope,” Jughead replies, and that’s all she gets out of him until they arrive at Veronica’s penthouse and he’s forced to switch into a slightly more social mode. Veronica comes to them at once, shimmering and brilliant as always, her smile wide. 

“So this is the famous boyfriend.” She sweeps her eyes over Jughead in what Betty takes as an appreciative look. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones.” 

“The pleasure’s all mine, Ms. Lodge.” 

“I’m sure it is,” Veronica says, now casting her practiced eye Betty. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Jones, in more ways than one.” 

“Sure am.” At the slight question in his voice, Veronica licks her lips. 

“Our girl’s excellent in _so_ many ways, isn’t she?” Veronica says sweetly. 

Betty wonders if there’s a particular time and place appropriate for telling your fake boyfriend that you and your best friend once fooled around with each other in college. Not said friend’s holiday party, she’s sure of that much. She plucks a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and tips it down her throat a bit too quickly. 

“I’m sure you’re looking forward to taking her home with you next week,” Veronica continues, at which Jughead visibly startles. “Bettykins here was telling me all about your trip. There’s nothing quite like the thrill of introducing a new paramour to Mommy and Daddy.” 

_Shit_ , Betty thinks; she never did remember to mention Veronica’s assumption to Jughead. _Shit shit shit shit shit._

Standing there with his jaw dropped, Jughead seems unable to respond; Betty, though equally floored, recovers first and does it for him. She grabs his elbow and steers him towards the buffet table as she tosses a light, “Speak for yourself, Veronica,” over her shoulder. 

.

.

.

They sneak out of the party early, a fact Betty had hoped Veronica would not notice. She has no such luck, of course; Veronica sends her a text consisting solely of eggplant emojis while they’re still in the Uber going home. She deletes the text completely, then stares out the window, thinking. 

“What’s up with you lately?” Betty says bluntly, the moment they’re safely back at their building. She throws down the hand of Jughead’s she’d been holding as they deliberately ignored the Ghoulies in the car across the street. “I know Veronica’s assumption was a lot, but it _would_ be a logical one, if we were really dating. You’re fine with me being your fake girlfriend for weeks, but you can’t pretend to enjoy being my fake boyfriend for a single night?” 

“Who said I was fine with you being my fake girlfriend?” he spits back, slumping with his hands shoved into the pockets of the nice wool overcoat that she strongly suspects belongs to Kevin. Maybe that’s it, she thinks; maybe Jughead has more of a chip on his shoulder about growing up on the wrong side of the tracks than she’d previously imagined. 

“ _You_ did. You’ve been going along with it this whole time.” 

The muscle running along the side of Jughead’s jaw ripples. “I didn’t agree to you coming home with me for Christmas. That’s like a whole other level.” 

“I wasn’t actually planning to!” she retorts. “But you know what, it’s not a terrible idea. The Ghoulies are still after one or both of us, Jug. We should probably keep sticking together.”

If possible, Jughead’s jaw clenches even harder. “Betty, I’m not your charity case,” he mutters, before whirling around and stomping up the stairs. 

“Jug,” Betty calls after him. “Jug, we should talk.” 

He does not respond. 

.

.

.


	3. two, b

His hands tighten on the steering wheel of a rented Ford as he turns past a familiar metal sign with chipped paint. A wave of nostalgia and dread washes over him, and Jughead sighs.

Sunnyside is the same as Jughead remembers it: somewhat rough, somewhat faded, and somewhat disappointed, as though the place itself had had greater aspirations and was now relegated to being a breeding ground for low-level gang members on the south side of a town that itself had fallen from grace. 

Of course, it hasn’t been that long since he’s been back to visit - just since late summer - and the trailer park has likely been the same since it was founded decades prior to his own birth, so he’s not exactly surprised. There’s an old saying that Jughead replays every time he comes home:  _ the more things change, the more they stay the same,  _ and never has that been more true than with Sunnyside.

Or with his father, for that matter. Whatever has spurred the Ghoulies to suddenly start tracking him, for him to suddenly be a target, Jughead is  _ sure  _ that it involves his father. All things considered, Jughead hasn’t exactly been looking forward to coming home for Christmas. Their relationship has been worse than it is now, but it has also been significantly better, and another missed holiday wouldn’t have been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Plus, Christmas at Sunnyside isn’t exactly a fairy tale: his mom and sister are still gone, there’s not always holiday food, and his dad’s trailer only has one bedroom, which is a real problem even when it’s only him that comes home - let alone if he comes home with Betty.

_ Betty.  _

Jughead glances to his right, where his neighbour-turned-fake girlfriend is seated in the passenger seat of the vehicle. Her attention is turned out the window, and even in the few short seconds that he watches her, he can tell why she’s a private investigator. She’s focused, conscious,  _ alert  _ in a way that he both does and doesn’t recognize. He’d grown up with a naturally heightened awareness of his surroundings, and had by age ten or so developed almost a sixth sense for ascertaining the very specific nature of his father’s footsteps, and what they would mean. Each creak below the linoleum of the trailer was a sentence in a book that Jughead had quickly learned to read. Was he drunk, was it late, was he angry, was he apologetic, and importantly, who was home to absorb that energy?

Betty, though, seems to have this and more. She’s grabbed his hand on the street and casually alerted him to the presence of a Ghoulie, has warned and protected him from people that he hadn’t even been aware of. Jughead had thought that years of growing up in and around the Serpents had left him with, at minimum, the ability to sense those types of threats, but the past month with Betty has shown him that he has a long way still to go.

Jughead turns back to the road, his speed slowing to a crawl as he passes a row of trailers where children are throwing snowballs. Once more, the nostalgia hits him.

“It’s nice,” Betty offers, her voice cutting into the last hour of near-silence.

He snorts. “You don’t have to do that. I know it’s not.  _ We  _ all know it’s not.”

He’s surprised that she’s even with him right now, after the sort-of argument they’d had following her work’s Christmas party. He’d been frustrated with her, even though she’s only been helping him; had been angry at her, despite that her actions have really only benefited him and no one else. At the event, her coworker Veronica had alluded to them spending the Christmas holidays together, and while he can see how it  _ was  _ a logical assumption, something about the casual way Betty that let the comment slide by had bothered him. 

She’s spent the last several weeks at his beck and call, walking him to dinners and holding his hand and acting like his bodyguard, and while it’s been appreciated, Jughead’s guilt and frustration has begun to reach a breaking point.  _ She doesn’t need to be doing this,  _ he’d thought that night. He hadn’t asked her to start doing it, hadn’t asked her to continue, and definitely hadn’t asked her to extend it through the holidays. Surely, she had better things to do for Christmas, better  _ people  _ to spend it with. 

Jughead isn’t entirely sure what had come over him then, but whatever it is, it still lingers.

He’d expressed himself poorly, he knows. There is no maturity in walking away from somebody mid-conversation. He’d known that as he was doing it, been aware of his faults  _ while  _ they were being exposed (he is and always has been, at a minimum, fairly self-aware in that respect), and despite that he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d gone home, where Kevin had promptly read him the riot act for his treatment of Betty (“Jughead, you’re my friend, but you fucked up”). He’d soon offered Betty an apology devoid of any explanation, which she’d mercifully accepted, but even now in the rental car, Jughead can feel the tension from that last conversation.

Betty makes a noise of hesitation as he turns down the road where his father lives. Jughead doesn’t look at her, but he can hear her mouth open and then close again without words passing through.

Finally, they reach FP’s trailer, and Jughead pulls in beside his dad’s rusty old truck. He puts the rented Ford in park, turns off the engine, and then sits with Betty in two seconds of thundering silence. “Well, here we are,” he ultimately announces, turning to face her.

She looks nervous, an expression that Jughead hasn’t seen her wear very often over the last month of their psuedo-togetherness.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

Betty flashes a smile at him, but it soon falters. “Yeah, I just - while we were pulling in, I …” She trails off, as if uncertain of her next words, then takes another breath before continuing. “I like to pay attention to who’s watching. Threats, usually,” she explains. “But driving in,  _ everyone  _ was watching.”

“Well, yeah. It’s not a car that they’d recognize. And Sunnyside isn’t exactly the kind of place that gets a lot of visitors. Not good ones, anyway.” Jughead chews his bottom lip briefly. “Sunnyside is mostly Serpent territory, so as far as the Ghoulies go, I wouldn’t worry too much. There are a lot of protections here. I’m not a member, but I’m kind of Serpent-adjacent, I guess.”

Betty nods in understanding and reaches for the door handle. “Okay. Well, I’ll try not to knock out any of your guys.”

She’s clearly intended it as a joke, but the phrase makes Jughead’s skin crawl a little. He can hear the edge in his own voice when he replies, quickly and sharply, “They’re  _ not _ ‘my guys’, Betts.”

She looks taken aback, and immediately, Jughead winces. He’s been pulling his own foot out of his mouth a lot this week. He decides to blame it on the impending stress of spending Christmas with his father (which also  _ must  _ be responsible for the nickname that his brain has apparently also decided to use for Betty), and places a hand on her forearm to pause her movements while he tries to explain.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, withdrawing his hand quickly. He sighs and looks out the window at the side of his dad’s trailer, where the paint is peeling and the nearby garbage can is overflowing. “It’s just - I’m not a Serpent,” he tells the window. “It’s … it’s important for you to know that. It wasn’t smooth sailing around here that I wasn’t, that I’m not. Everyone I grew up with -  _ everyone,  _ pretty much - is. I’d be lying if I said it was an easy decision. It seems like it should be, but it wasn’t.” He drops his chin to his collarbone, hoping to ease some of the tightness that’s pooled just below, but it doesn’t work. “And for a while, it didn’t go over that well - at home or at school or outside of either.”

Jughead hazards a glance at Betty, who is watching him with wide, almost innocent-looking eyes that belie what he knows to be her true capabilities. Still, there’s compassion in them, not pity, and it eases the ache of guilt in his chest.

He decides to finish up his diatribe before that compassion runs out. “Look, I care about a lot of them. It’s friends, family - both in and out. I mean, Dad’s out, but he still lives here, so he’s not  _ really  _ disassociated, not entirely. But don’t get me wrong, Betty: they’re a gang. They break the law and think they’re Robin Hood, but they aren’t. They’re not as dangerous and violent as the Ghoulies, and the drugs they run aren’t as hard, but they’re criminals and misogynists and manipulators and I’m  _ not  _ one of them.”

Betty pierces him with her gaze for a few long moments, then she takes one of his wringing hands from his lap and squeezes his fingers. “I know you aren’t,” she says softly. “I know you aren’t any of those things. I haven’t known you for very long, Jug, but it’s been enough time for me to be able to tell what kind of person you are.”

He bites his lip into a half-smile and (mostly) ignores the strange sensation that is beginning to bloom in his chest. “Thanks, Betty. I know I’ve been a dick this week, but I do appreciate you coming back with me. Christmas with my dad isn’t exactly going to be a walk in the park, just be warned.”

Betty laughs. “Uh oh. Is he not going to like me?”

Jughead snorts and gets out of the car. Betty follows suit, and comes to join him near the trunk as he pulls out their bags. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he says. “You ride a motorcycle, you’re smart, you’re gorgeous, and you’re pretending to be interested in me. He’s going to love you.”

 

.

.

.

 

His prediction turns out to be correct.

The meeting goes as smoothly as Jughead could’ve hoped: FP has a beer in his hand when he opens the door, but Jughead immediately can tell it’s maybe only the second of the day, so when he hugs Jughead and then Betty, it feels somewhat genuine and not influenced by anything else. FP makes a quick joke at Jughead’s expense - “My boy’s always been a little soft, so I’m glad he found someone to open all the tough jars” - then drags Jughead and Betty’s duffel bags to his bedroom, which he’s apparently decided to surrender to the two of them for their stay.

“He’s nice,” Betty whispers to Jughead as soon as FP is down the hallway. “You guys look a lot alike.”

It is, of course, not the first time he’s heard that. His resemblance to his father has been an omnipresent characteristic, something used to his benefit when getting gifts of candy from older relatives and also something used against him by rival Serpents and even by his own mother, who’d cited their similarity while she was packing to leave both of them behind.

“So I’ve heard,” he replies. “So, this is the place.” He waves his hand around the living room. “There’s not really a tour to be given of a trailer, so -”

“Come on kid, it’s a castle,” FP interrupts, appearing from the hallway once more. “A damn palace.”

“I think it’s really nice,” Betty cuts in. “Cozy.”

“Sure is,” FP boasts half-jokingly. “Come in, kids, sit down. Anyone want a drink?”

“Just water, please,” Betty responds, while Jughead shakes his head. 

He lets Betty lead him to the nearby couch. He sits first; she plants herself directly next to him, and he’s reminded again that  _ right, we’re pretending to be dating,  _ so he puts an arm over the back of the couch, just behind her shoulders. She leans into him, but just as quickly as she relaxes, she sits up again.

“Oh my god is that  _ you?”  _ she exclaims, leaning over to peer at a framed photograph of Jughead that rests on the side table.

Jughead knows what it’ll be immediately; it’s almost certainly a picture of him at his kindergarten graduation, the last time that either of his parents bothered to frame a photo of him. Still, he peers over her shoulder just to confirm, then nods. “Yep. Kindergarten.”

Betty picks up the frame and then shuffles backward until she’s half in his embrace once more. “Aww. You were so  _ cute,  _ Jug. Look at your hair! It’s all over the place!”

His father walks in as Betty is cooing over five-year-old him. FP places a glass of water on the table, grins, and sinks into what has to by now be a forty-year old armchair. “Jug was a real cute kid,” he informs Betty. “The ladies used to always stop and moon over him, ever since he was a baby. Had a bit of an awkward teenage phase, but-”

“Thanks, Dad,” Jughead interrupts loudly.

Betty giggles, a moderately pitched noise that he’s almost certain is fake, and pats his thigh. “Aw, don’t worry, you’re still cute,” she tells him, twisting slightly to peck his cheek.

“Thanks, Betts,” he says dryly.

She smiles at him sweetly and squeezes his leg again, then turns around to face his father. “So Mr. Jones,” she begins.

“It’s FP, Betty. There are no misters in this house.”

“FP,” Betty repeats. “What does that stand for, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’ll sound familiar,” Jughead interrupts, before his father can speak. “Forsythe Pendleton.”

Comprehension lights up Betty’s eyes. “Ah, you’re a junior!”

“Actually, I’m the junior,” his father cuts in, his face expressionless. “Jug’s the third.”

“Now you know why I go by  _ Jughead,”  _ Jughead comments. “Less teasing than with Forsythe.”

“It’s a damn fine name, boy,” FP says sternly. “Anyway, Betty, you were asking?”

She looks confused for a brief moment before snapping back. “Right, yeah. Jughead tells me you ride a bike, too, but he couldn’t tell me the make.”

“He was never interested.” The disappointment is palpable in his father’s voice; Jughead fights the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s an old Honda CB550. Customized it a bit, got a brat seat and it’s repainted. Broken right now, though, something’s fucked up with the exhaust. Need to get one of the guys to check it out.”

“Maybe I can take a look at it,” Betty offers. “I’ve done a lot of work on my bike, I may be able to help.”

“That so?” FP smiles at her, impressed. “Yeah, go at it, it’s around back. Toolbox is just in the hall closet, I’ll grab it for you.”

“I can find it!” Betty dismisses. She shifts on the couch and presses a brief, closed kiss to Jughead’s mouth. “I’ll be right back, Jug,” she says upon pulling away, then hops up and slides down the hall. She manages to locate the toolbox right away, shrugs her coat on, and slips outside.

As soon as the door closes, FP clears his throat. “So you want your grandmother’s ring, or what?”

Even though his brain knows that the whole relationship is just a ruse, Jughead’s face stil flames with heat at the implication. “Jesus, Dad,” he swears, shaking his head. “We haven’t been dating that long.”

“Who cares?” FP replies, throwing up his hands. “She beat the shit out of some Ghoulies, she knows her way around a bike, she’s pretty - kind of reminds me of a girl I used to know back in the day, actually, what the hell was her name? From somewhere past Centreville. Had a tongue like a whip, that girl. Which comes in handy in more ways than one, if you get my -"

“Oh my  _ god,”  _ Jughead groans, standing up. “I don’t want to know about your ex-girlfriend.”

“Wasn’t really a girlfriend,” his dad laughs, “not exactly a relationship there, outside of the bedroom. Or in our case, the backseat of my car.”

Jughead wrinkles his nose. “Too much information. Go relive your glory days with the guys at the bar.”

“I’m still livin’ my glory days, kid,” FP shrugs, leaning back in the chair. He puts his hands behind his head, elbows pointed to the sides. “Which reminds me, I should tell you. I’ve been seeing someone.”

_ Of course,  _ Jughead thinks.  _ Let’s add this to my pile of shit.  _ He sits back down on the couch and crosses his arms. “Yeah? Who?”

“Lisa Flores.”

The name sounds oddly familiar, but only slightly. Jughead wracks his brain, trying to figure out if he’s imagining the feeling. Suddenly, it hits him, and he sits up stick-straight. “Malachi Flores’s mother?!”

FP shifts uneasily and lowers his arms. “Yeah.”

“Dad,  _ what the fuck,”  _ Jughead hisses, dropping his head into his hands. “No  _ wonder  _ Malachi sent those lugs after me. You slept with his mother! When were you going to tell me?!”

FP looks annoyed. “I’m telling you now.”

Jughead stares at his father. “You need to stop seeing her.”

FP looks annoyed at the suggestion. “I don’t need to do anything, boy.”

“Her son, who runs a fucking gang, has people  _ stalking me,  _ Dad.” Jughead looks at him, incredulous. “Are you that selfish? Do you not give a shit?”

His father has the decently to look vaguely guilty, at least momentarily, before responding, “You’re a grown man, kid. You can take care of yourself. Or Betty can, at least.”

“It’s been five fucking weeks, Dad! I moved to Chicago so I  _ wouldn’t  _ have to look over my shoulder every moment of the day.”

FP scowls and takes a swig of his beer. “Funny, I thought you moved to Chicago to get away from your family. From the people that care about you.”

Jughead stands up. “Yeah, let me know if you see any of those people around.” He storms down the hallway to the bedroom, kicks his duffel bag out of the way, and slams the door.

 

.

.

.

 

Jughead wakes up to the sound of his dad’s old truck roaring to life. The light in the room, never great to begin with, has faded, and it’s that which causes him to reach blearily for his cell phone to check the time. He’s not sure how he fell asleep - anger makes him drowsy, apparently - but when his phone tells him he’s been asleep for at least three hours, he instantly thinks,  _ Betty.  _

“You’re up.”

He flips over suddenly, not having expected anyone else to be in the room, and spots Betty sitting cross-legged on the opposite edge of the bed, her laptop open on the mattress. She’s changed from the outfit she’d had on earlier and is now wearing holiday lightbulb-patterned pajama pants that say “get lit” on them and a long-sleeved white top that highlights the smooth sweep of her collarbone. Her hair is down from its usual ponytail and falls in waves around her shoulders.

Immediately, and without prompting, he says, “You look pretty.”

Betty’s face flushes pink with surprise. It’s clearly not something she’d expected to hear, which makes sense; he hadn’t anticipated saying it. 

“Your dad went to get Chinese food,” she says, averting her eyes. She’s still blushing a little. “He was making a ham, but it burned.”

“He burned a precooked ham?” Jughead asks, but he’s not surprised. Above all, at least his father is consistent in his disappointment. 

Betty shrugs, clearly unsure of how to speak about FP. “He said you guys got in a fight.”

Jughead sighs and rolls onto his back. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “He’s sleeping with the mother of the Ghoulies’ leader. That’s why they’ve been following me. Malachi has never liked me, or my dad, and he probably hates that his mother’s involved with him.”

“Are you serious?” Betty asks, incredulous. “A month of stalking you, trying to beat you up, just because his mother’s got a boyfriend he doesn’t like?”

“The thing about joining a gang when you’re in high school is that everyone ends up sort of … stuck in high school.” Jughead drops his hands and sighs again. “I’m sorry you got messed up in this juvenile bullshit. I’m sure you have better things you could be doing then sitting in a dilapidated trailer with me.”

She bites her lip and is quiet for a moment, then shuts her laptop and sets it to the side. “I’m not sorry,” she finally tells him. “It’s been stressful, sure, but that’s kind of my whole thing.” Betty offers a little smile and shoves his arm playfully. “My parents aren’t angels, either, as I told you. And to be honest, with being a P.I., especially with them being how they are, I don’t always go home for holidays. Or otherwise. It’s kind of lonely, sometimes.” She shifts on the bed, looking slightly uncomfortable, and Jughead sits up. “Though it hasn’t been a walk in the park, this month has been … nice. Needing to have someone around. And I’m glad it’s been you.”

Jughead swallows, but his mouth has suddenly gone dry. “I’m glad it’s been you, too.” He bites the inside of his cheek against the nerves that are suddenly rising and preoccupies himself with removing his thick knit sweater. It’s hot, oddly. He’ll be fine in his long-sleeved shirt. “You know, even when all this is over, Betts, you’re always welcome to follow me around.”

Betty grins. “Good to know. I think I’ve almost finally gotten all the rules of Gryphons and Gargoyles down. I’d hate to lose that knowledge. Or my place at the right hand of the king.”

She’s obviously referring to his character outfit, which includes a fake gold crown atop his head, but he’s pedantic and probably a loser, so he’s unable to stop himself from correcting her. “I’m not the king, Betts, I’m -”

“Jughead,” she interrupts, “it  _ so  _ doesn’t matter.”

 

.

.

.

 

His father gets home twenty minutes later, bearing a few takeout bags with styrofoam boxes inside them, and the three of them eat in relative silence. It’s punctuated only by Betty’s intentionally mundane, falsely probing questions, which mercifully keeps his father occupied for the majority of what is technically their Christmas dinner.

At the end of the meal, when Betty and Jughead are cleaning up plates, FP informs them that he’s going out for a while. “Got people to see,” he explains vaguely, but it’s clear who he’s going to meet.

“Tell her I say hi,” Jughead calls after him sarcastically, feeling hopelessly like a fifteen-year-old kid again, angry at the world.

FP stares at him with frustration clouding his face. It’s a familiar expression by this point; after all, they’re basically Jughead’s eyes, too. His father says nothing, but when he leaves, the trailer door slams.

Jughead groans and leans against the kitchen counter. “Fuck,” he swears. “Merry Christmas, Betty.”

She approaches him slowly, places a hand on his arm gingerly, and asks, “Do you want to drive home?”

He shakes his head. “Too far, and it’s Christmas night. Motels are probably booked along the way. I’m not dragging you around like Mary to every inn that’s full.”

“Okay.” Betty looks at him again, still standing fairly close. “Can I give you a hug?”

“What? Yeah, I - yeah.” Jughead is a little surprised that she’s even asked, given how many times they’ve embraced over the last month, but it’s true that this time, it’s not  _ for  _ anyone. He slides his arms around her waist and pulls her toward him, just as he’s done before, but this time the action is anything but automatic. This time, when her body presses against his, he doesn’t strain to avert his consciousness from the feeling. 

“I’m sorry your Christmas is so shitty,” Betty says softly over his shoulder.

It’s probably time to let go, but Jughead can’t bring himself to let go yet. The hug is nice. She feels nice. “It’s getting better,” he tells her quietly, and tightens his grip around her waist. He can feel the delicate muscles of her back through the cotton of her shirt, and wonders if she’s noticing anything about him now that he’s shed his usual winter uniform of a thick sweater. He’s never been big, not in any way like that, but he thinks he’s pretty solid, even with the recent onslaught of holiday cookies.

He counts it as a win that Betty, too, seems to not be interested in the hug ending. “I’m glad,” she says, the tension in her back fading away as she seems to relax against him. 

Jughead starts to stroke her side ever-so-slightly, the movement instinctual. Out of respect for her, he’s tried desperately over the last few weeks not to notice the specific curves of her body - she’s here to do a favour for him, not for him to ogle her - but right now, with her chest pressed against his and the shape of her waist under his hand, it’s increasingly hard to ignore.

“That feels really nice,” Betty breathes.

“Yeah,” he exhales, pressing his fingertips along the inch-wide strip of skin that she’s exposed between her shirt and the waistband of her pajama pants. “Betty,” he starts to say, his voice croaky with nerves, “I -”

The sound of metal crashing outside stops his words on his tongue, and Betty pushes back from him. “What was that?” 

“Garbage can,” Jughead reports. “Almost definitely. But it’s not windy.” He frowns. “It’s also dark out now. Wonder if -”

“Ghoulies,” Betty finishes, nodding. “Do you have a - here.” She opens the top drawer beside Jughead, and of all things, pulls out a rolling pin. “Stay here.”

“I’m coming  _ with _ you,” Jughead protests, following her to the door. He pushes his shoes on while she does the same, and foregoing a jacket, steps outside just behind her.

Betty brandishes the rolling pin like it’s a police-issue club as she creeps around the trailer. She’s choosing her steps very carefully, he notices, so Jughead steps only in her footsteps just in case there’s some significance. She approaches the corner, signals for him to be quiet, and listens to the silence of the night for a moment before whirling out of sight with the pin held high. 

Jughead hears a cry - a distinctly male one - and he immediately runs around the corner that Betty had disappeared behind. On the ground is a man, clutching his eye, recognizable as a Ghoulie even if only for the gaudy jewelry that he’s wearing.

“You fucking bitch,” he swears, “what the -”

“Jones.” 

Jughead whirls around at the sound of his last name. Betty drops the rolling pin to her side but leans her weight back, a signal that he by now recognizes as meaning that she’s about to roundhouse kick someone, and he doesn’t stop her preparation until the speaker steps into the dim light from the kitchen window.

Jughead sighs in relief. “Sweet Pea,” he greets. Behind him, another Serpent steps out. “Hey, Fangs.”

“What the fuck is going on, Jones? What is this trash doing here?” Sweet Pea spits, gesturing to the Ghoulie on the ground. 

Betty steps on the Ghoulie’s shoulder, pressing with a warning crack. “Who the hell are you?” she asks them.

“We’re old friends of Jones,” Sweet Pea answers, frowning at her. “You do this to this guy?”

“Yeah,” Betty says, jutting her chin out. “I’m Jughead’s girlfriend, and these assholes have been stalking him for the last month.”

Fangs snaps his fingers. “I knew you looked familiar. Remember?” he prompts, hitting Sweet Pea lightly with a closed fist. “FP was showing us the article. Jug’s dating Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Betty answers, leaning further on the Ghoulie.

Jughead reaches for her hand and takes the rolling pin from her. “Can you guys get him out of here?” he asks.

“Our pleasure,” Sweet Pea says, stepping forward with Fangs and hauling the Ghoulie up by his arms. They drag him a few feet and then pause, Sweet Pea turning to look at Jughead again. “We miss you around here, Jones.”

“Good to see you guys,” Jughead replies, and it’s not a lie. Of all of the Serpents that he’s associated with over his life, Sweet Pea and Fangs - guys that he grew up with, went to school with, and ultimately left behind - were among the better ones. “Say hi to Toni.”

“Yeah, she’ll be sorry she missed you,” Fangs jokes, and then as quickly as they’d appeared, they’re gone, with the only evidence of their presence being the faint groans of a rival gang member fading into the night.

As soon as they’re gone, the cold realities of a coatless winter night in Riverdale begin to cut through Jughead’s shirt, and he leads an also-shivering Betty back into the trailer. “Old friends?” she asks him, as she rubs her own arms with her hands to warm up.

“Yep.”

“And Toni?”

“Kind of an ex,” he tells her, stepping into the living room to grab a blanket from the couch. “From years ago.”

Betty waggles her eyebrows. “Oh? Should I be fake-jealous?”

Jughead rolls his eyes and wraps the blanket around Betty’s shoulders. “You’re more her type these days than I am,” he assures her. “I better text Dad about the Ghoulie, just in case.”

Betty nods her understanding. “Probably a good idea.” She wanders into the living room and sits down on the couch while Jughead taps out a quick  **_one of them was here, watch your back_ ** to his father. 

When he’s done, he sits down beside her. He’s regular-close this time, since nobody is here to fool, but after fifteen minutes of the TV playing  _ Elf  _ for the umpteenth time, a soft weight slumps against his side. He looks over to see Betty’s head lolling on his shoulder, her eyes closed and her breathing slow, and he smiles.

 

.

.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may have noticed that the total number of chapters has now become "?" instead of 4. it may still be 4. however, given myself and stillscape's utter failure to stick to our outline for the second chapter, i cannot make any guarantees.


	4. three, a

She’s comfortable. The first thought to pop into Betty’s mind when she returns to consciousness is that she’s comfortable. Despite the ancient, sagging, totally unsupportive couch cushions, despite the crick in her neck and back from the awkward angle her head’s been at for god knows how long, despite the fact that they’re apparently _not_ completely safe from the Ghoulies in this supposed Serpent territory, she’s comfortable. 

Her head is in Jughead’s lap. 

She sits up. “Sorry,” she says, looking at the TV instead of him; _Elf_ is still going, so she can’t have been out that long. Still, she feels the tiniest bit embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to doze off.”

“It’s okay,” Jughead reassures her. “It’s been a long day, to say the least.” 

.

.

.

She takes the first shift in the trailer’s lone bathroom, contemplating the mirror—not her reflection, but the mirror itself—as she brushes her teeth. There’s a film of dust and grime over most of the surface, punctuated in the middle by an emphatic but still smudgy swipe, as though Jughead’s father had taken a halfhearted pass at it with a dirty towel and decided that was good enough. 

All through this trailer is evidence of his _that’s good enough_ attitude: the sink holds a ring of soap scum dotted with tiny whisker bits even though FP doesn’t appear to have shaved in days; the sheets on the bed are clean, but the bed is made incorrectly; the living room was clearly tidied recently, but crumbs in the couch corners and sweat rings on the coffee table belie the idea that FP actually _cleaned_. The problem with his motorcycle exhaust was one she’d been able to fix in half an hour; it only needed a few screws tightened here and there. 

To someone like her, whose very livelihood depends on meticulous attention to detail, the slapdash tendencies are… well, unsurprising. To someone like her, whose childhood was marked by rigorous, scrupulous overparenting, the idea that a father could lead a life like FP’s and think _that’s good enough for my son_ is… 

But then there’s Jughead, who—grumpy though he’s been for the past week or so—is just plain _good_. Something had caught in her chest when he’d so vehemently insisted he wasn’t a Serpent earlier that day, and it catches again now, a mixture of sadness at the circumstances in which he’d grown up and a strange sort of pride that he’d been able to rise above them. 

“All yours,” she says, when she returns to the bedroom. Jughead, now in plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a white undershirt, nods. As he brushes past her, toothbrush in hand, she catches a whiff of freshly applied deodorant. 

.

.

.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he offers half-heartedly, upon his return. 

Betty shakes her head from the side of the bed she’s claimed, and pats the pillow next to her. “Not a chance, Jug.” The heavily stained carpet appears to be twice as old as she is, but even if it was as new and plush as the shearling throw rug in front of Veronica’s fireplace, she wouldn’t ask him to sleep on the floor. 

Nor does she want him to sleep on the floor. 

He doesn’t protest. He merely nods and climbs in next to her. Then he switches the lamp off and settles on his back, arms behind his head. Enough light makes it through the bedroom’s mangled blinds that she can see Jughead’s eyes are still open. He stares at the ceiling, seemingly lost in thought. 

“Jug?” she ventures, and he turns very slightly towards her. “Earlier, before that Ghoulie interrupted—what were you going to say?” 

He makes a funny little noise, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “I think the moment may have passed.” 

The thing in Betty’s chest roars, sending reverberations all the way down to the tips of her toes. It repeats the words Jughead had said before they’d exited the rental car: _you’re smart, you’re gorgeous, and you’re pretending to be interested in me._

“Bullshit,” she says, tossing the covers aside. 

Even before she can swing her leg all the way over him, one of Jughead’s hands winds into her hair, helping guide her lips to his—as though she _needs_ help with a thing like that. She settles into a half-crouch over him as the kiss deepens. His other hand slips across her back, first over her shirt and then under it, his large, warm palm pressing comfortingly into her skin. 

In perfect synchronization, they end the kiss, Betty pulling back just enough that they can look into each other’s eyes. 

“Betts,” he breathes, “you—” 

At this precise moment, the front door crashes open, and they both freeze. 

“Just me, kids!” FP calls, his voice slightly slurred. “You keep doing whatever you’re doing.” 

“Ever the master of impeccable timing, my father,” Jughead mutters, his expression clouding as a series of scuffles, thumps, and clinks indicates FP is settling himself on the couch with at least one more beer. 

Betty presses a second kiss to the corner of Jughead’s mouth, and then a third, hoping he’ll turn his head enough to catch her lips with his. He does not. 

“You okay?” she ventures. 

“Are _you_?” 

Betty nods, and Jughead sighs so deeply she’s almost unseated. She takes this as a hint to climb off of him, and snuggles next to him instead, tucking her head onto his chest and pulling his arm around her waist. She taps her fingers lightly on his chest for a few moments, right over his heart, and then says, “You know, we don’t have to stop just because—”

Jughead lets out a groan. “The walls are _so_ thin.” 

Sure enough, she can hear the telltale creaks and groans of FP tossing around on the couch. “I guess it would be weird to mess around in your dad’s bed anyway.” 

“It would,” Jughead agrees. “It definitely would.” 

.

.

.

Naps are one thing, but when it comes to beds, she’s always had a difficult time falling asleep anywhere but her own room. Childhood sleepovers at friends’ houses, nights at boyfriends’ apartments, hotels—unfamiliar dark spaces inevitably leave Betty tossing and turning, too alert to drift off easily. 

Tonight is no different. At two in the morning, she finds herself still mostly awake, ears pricked for the slightest indication that they might be in danger. Who knows if FP even locked the door when he came in? Betty doesn’t. 

Jughead is having no such problem. He slumbers peacefully with his back to her, letting out the occasional little noise that isn’t quite a snore. The covers are pulled all the way up to his chin, but they’re thin enough that the outline of his shoulders is clear. 

(Kevin had been right—she very much likes what she’s seen of Jughead sans layers thus far.) 

She could slip out of bed, creep across to the door, and ensure it’s locked, probably without waking FP up. Or she could trust that this trailer park is Serpent territory after all, and that enough eyes and ears are out that they won’t have to worry about any more Ghoulies tonight. Sweet Pea and Fangs had both struck her as people who knew how to take care of business. 

Another little not-quite-snore rumbles out of Jughead, and with a mix of fondness and horror, Betty realizes it’s cute. 

_Get a hold of yourself, Cooper_ , she thinks, and then _Why should I?_ Above all else, Jughead looks comfortable, in a way that makes her think she could be comfortable too. She scoots right up next to him, slips her arm around his waist, and lets her nose just barely brush the back of his neck. 

Jughead’s reaction is immediate; he jerks half upright and mutters “Wha?” in a voice thick with sleep. 

“Shh,” Betty whispers. “Sorry. It’s just me, I—” 

“S’okay.” 

He collapses back on his pillow, then seems to notice her arm. After a moment, he grabs her hand and tugs until Betty scoots herself flush against his back. 

“You’re a good big spoon,” he says drowsily, and immediately falls back asleep. 

Under her arm, his torso rises and falls. Betty lets the rhythm of his breath subsume hers until she, too, nods off. 

.

.

.

By the time morning comes, they’ve drifted to opposite sides of the bed. Betty wakes up just enough to register this fact, then falls asleep again. The next time she stirs, it’s because the mattress shakes. 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she hears, and she opens her eyes to see a fully dressed Jughead sitting on the edge of the mattress, two coffees in hand. 

Betty blinks as she sits up. “What time is it?” 

“Just after nine.” Jughead hands her the coffee with cream in it. “Judging by your expression, I’m guessing that’s later than you usually sleep.” 

“By a few hours, yeah.” She takes a sip of the coffee, which is terrible—instant granules, and the creamer is fake.

Jughead nods at the cup. “I know it’s gross, but it’s all we’ve got.” 

“It’s fine,” Betty assures him. “Thanks.” 

He swallows once. “Um. About last night—” 

A loud knock interrupts him, followed by FP yelling “You kids decent in there?” The door crashes open before either of them can respond, and FP strolls in, scruffy and shirtless. “Sorry. Forgot to pull clean clothes out last night. Morning, Betty.” 

“Good morning,” Betty replies. She glances at Jughead, who determinedly avoids her gaze as FP rummages around in a drawer. 

“Aha,” says FP, holding aloft a pair of ancient socks with no small degree of triumph. “Knew there was a pair left. Lemme just grab a few more things, and I’ll be out of your hair.” 

Jughead stands up. “I’ll go see what we have for breakfast.” 

The answer, apparently, is nothing, because a few minutes later, she hears the rental car engine start. 

.

.

.

The trailer door opens again half an hour later, by which time Betty has gotten dressed and repacked her bag. The box of chocolates she brought for FP as a thank-you-for-hosting-me gift, despite Jughead looking positively perplexed when she’d asked what his father might appreciate and then telling her in no uncertain terms not to bother, sits atop her neatly folded dirty clothes, still wrapped in its festive red paper. She’d intended to give it to FP when he and Jughead exchanged gifts, choosing not to believe that the two of them really did not give each other presents until the moment never came. 

“Got donuts,” Jughead’s voice calls. 

(The Christmas present she’d bought Jughead the week before last— _that_ remains in her apartment, wrapped but unbestowed, after his behavior at Veronica’s party had made her believe that giving Jughead a Christmas gift might have sent him completely over the edge.) 

Betty grabs the box of candy and heads into the tiny kitchen. She and Jughead may have both done a pretty good job of not turning into their parents, but her mother’s courteousness (or at least, the appearance thereof) is too deeply ingrained in her to ignore. 

.

.

. 

They make something resembling small talk over the donuts (and, in the case of both Joneses, the Christmas chocolates) for an hour or so, until Jughead stands up and declares that they’d better hit the road. Betty stands up too; the sooner she and Jughead can talk on their own, the better. 

“Thanks for having me,” she says, accepting the awkward goodbye hug he offers her. 

FP chuckles. “You come back anytime, missy, with or without my son.” 

“ _Dad_ —” 

“Preferably with, of course.” FP claps Jughead on the back. “Don’t be a stranger, boy.” 

“I won’t.” 

“And you take care of that girl of yours.” 

Beside her, Jughead visibly stiffens. “You know Betty can take care of herself, right?” 

“Oh, I know.” FP takes a step back and grins at them both. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

.

.

.

To Betty’s surprise, Jughead takes a left out of the trailer park instead of a right. 

“Different route home?” she wonders aloud. 

“Not exactly. Lunch stop.” 

“We just ate breakfast,” Betty points out. “It hasn’t even been two hours.” 

“Yeah, but I can’t leave Riverdale without stopping at Pop’s,” Jughead says. “It would literally kill me.” 

“You’re always so dramatic,” she teases, and he smiles in response. 

A few minutes later, he turns into the gravel parking lot of a retro-style diner. 

“This is it, Betty. The very best Riverdale has to offer.” His voice is light, but she can tell he’s deadly serious. She’s heard about Pop’s from Jughead several times before now, knows that he’d practically lived in the diner during high school even before he started working there after school, and though he hasn’t said so directly, she suspects he considers the place something of a second home. 

Inside the diner, an elderly man behind the counter greets Jughead warmly, raising two gray eyebrows at Betty. “Heard you had a lady friend,” he says. 

“Didn’t believe it, though, Pop?” Jughead’s smiling, though, relaxed for once instead of bristling. “Pop Tate, this is Betty Cooper. Betty, Pop.” 

“‘Course I believed it,” says Pop. 

Since it’s still well before lunchtime, the diner is mostly empty. Betty’s eye lands on a booth towards the back of the diner, and she scoots ahead of Jughead, anxious to ensure she gets the side facing the door. 

“You can relax,” Jughead whispers in her ear. “Pop’s is neutral ground. It’s a sanctuary for everyone—north side, south side, Serpent, Ghoulie, whatever.” 

She nods, but takes the door-facing seat anyway. Jughead slides in across from her, and Pop, who’s right behind them, sets a cup of black coffee on the table. 

“I know you don’t need a menu,” he says to Jughead. Then he turns to her. “You look like you’d appreciate a grilled cheese sandwich and a vanilla milkshake.” 

Betty blinks twice. “How’d you guess?” 

“Been at this a long time,” Pop says, winking at both of them. “Coming right up.” 

.

.

.

Despite Jughead’s assurances that no one in the diner will give them any trouble, Betty doesn’t want to risk discussing their relationship in public. They keep their lunch to a straightforward date of the kind that’s become so comfortable over the last month; whether it’s a fake date or a real one is something she’ll have to figure out later. 

Halfway through their meal, with Jughead reminiscing fondly about the time he’d organized a hunger strike to protest a cutback in the school district’s free lunch program, the diner door opens and Betty feels her jaw drop. 

“Toni made me drink sweetened coffee just so I’d have some calories and not be a total asshole,” he’s saying. “Not that it worked, it—Betty?” 

She nods at the door, and at the figure who’s grinning at them: FP Jones, with a woman who can only be Malachi’s mother on his arm. Like FP, she’s tall, with dark hair and a leather jacket; she looks every inch like the kind of woman who might have run a gang or two herself back in the day. 

“For god’s sake, Dad,” Jughead groans, although FP isn’t close enough to hear yet. “ _That’s_ Malachi’s mother?” 

“What about her?”

“Nothing. Dad’s just got a type, I guess.” He lets out a scoff. “She looks almost exactly like my mother, right down to the face tattoos.” 

FP leads Lisa Flores over to their table as Jughead slides out of his seat and joins Betty on her side of the booth, sighing heavily as the vinyl squeaks beneath him. 

“We’re at _Pop’s_ ,” he says. “Is nothing sacred, Dad? Is no _where_ sacred?” 

“Kids.” FP taps an index finger to his temple. “Had a little brainwave after you left. Figured Jug wouldn’t leave Riverdale without stopping here first, so I decided Lisa and I ought to drop in.” 

“Sit down, won’t you?” Betty says, deliberately injecting a little extra politeness into her voice. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Flores. I’m sorry I can’t stand up right now.” 

Lisa waves her hand in a _don’t bother_ gesture, but remains standing as FP sits, crossing her arms over her chest. “So this is the little blondie who’s been causing so much trouble?” 

“Thought maybe if Lisa met you two, saw how good you are together, she might be willing to put in a word with her son,” FP explains. 

Jughead and Lisa both turn to FP with looks of such incredulity that Betty has to fight back a giggle. 

“What the _hell_ , Dad—” Jughead starts, but Lisa interrupts him. 

“I already told Malachi he’s embarrassed himself enough,” she says, dropping into the booth with a little snort. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let my own son dictate what I do. I used to wipe his ass, for Chrissake.” 

Despite Betty’s better judgment, she decides she likes Malachi’s mom. 

.

.

.

As they pull onto the interstate an hour later, Jughead takes a deep breath and lets it out, but without any indication that he’s relaxed even the tiniest bit. “And thus concludes the weirdest Christmas ever,” he says. “Do you think the Ghoulies are really going to back off now?” 

“I guess we’ll know when we get back to Chicago. We should both keep our eyes peeled for the next few days, but if it doesn’t seem like anyone’s following us, then…” Betty shrugs, then reaches up to pull out her ponytail so she can lean more comfortably against the headrest. 

“Then this is over.” He glances sideways at her as he says it, and Betty notices his grip on the steering wheel tighten. 

The physical sensation of their kiss returns to her with an almost violent force. Not just the kiss, but the kiss, the lengthy hug, Jughead’s carefully casual admission that it wouldn’t be so terrible to keep hanging out with her… 

“ _Is_ this over?” Betty asks. “Christmas is, obviously, and maybe the Ghoulies tailing us is over too, but you and me, Jug, we don’t have to be.” 

“You and me.” Jughead swallows. “Like—how? Because last night, that—” 

“Wait, do you regret what we did?” They hadn’t even done much; they’d barely done anything _to_ regret. 

“Are you seriously asking if I regret kissing you? God, no, Betty. I’ve wanted to do that since we met. But…” 

“But?” she prompts, when he fails to pick the thought back up. 

“I guess… I was having a hard time seeing what you were getting out of the fake relationship before, and I’m having a hard time seeing what you’d be getting out of a real one now.” 

“What do you mean? I’d be getting a really good boyfriend out of it.” 

“Betty...”

“I have the impression,” she says, trying to choose her words with some tact, “that you might have a little chip on your shoulder about—about the way you grew up. And I get it, I do. If I know anything, it’s how hard it is to make the life you want for yourself when no one in your support system wants to support you. But you _did_ , and that’s impressive. Honestly, the thing that gives me the most pause is your devotion to that role-playing game.” 

“Betty,” he says again, almost as though her name is a question. 

“So come on, Jug,” she concludes. “Stop trying to talk yourself out of something that could be good. You know you’re a catch, right?” She asks the question a little teasingly; if they weren’t in the car, she’d give him a playful cuff on the bicep. As it is, she merely nudges him.

Jughead almost chokes on nothing. “Excuse me?” 

“You can’t tell me all the older teachers at your school aren’t trying to set you up with their daughters—and no, I didn’t investigate any of them,” she says. “I don’t have to in order to know that.” 

“It’s happened a few times,” he admits. “But not regularly.” 

“And?” 

“And I learned that I hate being set up on blind dates.” 

“Yeah, me too.” She winces a little at the memory of Veronica’s last attempt. “But you don’t hate dates with me, right?” 

Jughead takes his right hand off the wheel, and winds his fingers into hers. “No,” he says. “Do you want to go on one tonight?” 

She does. 

.

.

.

A fresh round of snow starts falling when they’re about halfway home, and by the time they reach the outskirts of Chicago, the roads are blanketed in yet another layer of gray slush. They don’t talk much, especially after the sun begins to dip low in the sky; Jughead concentrates hard on the road, offering an occasional muttered curse at other drivers as they creep into the city. The going is slow enough that he doesn’t have time to drop Betty off at home before he has to return the rental car. 

It’s fine, though. There’s something oddly romantic about trudging to the L together, duffel bags slung over their shoulders; she catches the occasional glimpse of their reflections in storefront windows, and not for the first time, thinks the two of them look good together. There’s something oddly romantic about having a lively debate over whether the pizza is better at Lou Malnati’s or Giordano’s, eventually agreeing to disagree on the subject—Betty prefers Lou Malnati’s, although she’s willing to concede to Giordano’s for the night, seeing as there’s one not too far from their apartment building. In turn, Jughead consents to order a salad for an appetizer instead of chicken wings. 

He makes her laugh with what’s actually a fairly horrifying story of how his friend Archie once got fired from the pizza restaurant they both worked at in college because he could never remember to use oven mitts, and burned his fingers one time too many. 

As they begin their walk back to the apartment building, Betty confesses that there’s a Christmas present waiting for him on her coffee table. “I know we said we wouldn’t,” she says quickly. “It’s just, I saw it and I thought of you, and—you know what, I’m not going to apologize for being nice.”

“You’re too much, Betty Cooper,” Jughead sighs, but he sounds pleased, not angry. “I guess this means I get to go pick up one of those things I stopped myself from buying for you after all.” 

“I spend so much time dealing with people who are shitty to each other because being shitty is easier, you know? Sometimes I just have this compulsion to try and redress the balance with the people I care about.” 

He presses a light kiss to her temple as they wait for the crosswalk to change.

Though it’s their first real date, Betty already feels like she’s in the best relationship of her life. 

.

.

.

No men in studded leather jackets follow them home from the train station. No unmarked vans are parked outside their apartment building. It’s just them, together, shivering in the snow. 

“I had a good time this Christmas,” she says, when they reach her apartment door at long last. 

Jughead raises an eyebrow. “I have a hard time believing you enjoyed _all_ of that trip, but I’ll take what I can get.” 

Her heart beats a little faster as she unlocks the door and pushes it open. “So, do you want to come in?” 

He does. 

.

.

.

If Betty had imagined how sex with Jughead might go—which she hasn’t, not truly, not in any kind of detail—she would have imagined it beginning exactly like it does: soft and sweet. Slow, even. 

They start with coffee. Betty puts on a pot to brew while they’re waiting for the heat in her apartment to kick in; Jughead carries her bag to her bedroom, then sits on her couch, hat in hand, fiddling with the brim. He puts the hat aside only when she brings him his Christmas present—nice lined leather gloves and a cozy gray scarf to match his hat, just as she’d threatened. 

“They _are_ nice,” he says, folding the scarf neatly on her coffee table. “Thank you, Betty.” 

When she brings the coffee over, he takes a mug and taps his fingers on its lip before bringing it to his mouth. His nervous energy mirrors the excitement that’s been bubbling in her chest for some time. 

(It is also, she thinks, very cute.) 

“So.” She plops down on the couch next to him. “We haven’t kissed all day, you know.” 

Jughead manages not to choke on the sip of coffee he’s just taken. “I know,” he says. “Trust me, I’ve wanted to.” 

“Well?” Betty asks, as she feels a smile break across her face. She bats her eyelashes, too, for good measure. 

In near-perfect synchronization, they put their mugs on the coffee table. Jughead reaches for her, and she swings into his lap, and for a long, long time, they simply kiss.

Jughead kisses well. He kisses thoroughly. He kisses her like he wants to make up for an entire month of not kissing her, and like he wants this night to last for an entire month, too. 

As he reaches up to slide her cardigan off her shoulder, Betty notices his fingers are trembling slightly. She traps it with her own hand, giving his knuckles a reassuring rub. 

“You’re not nervous, are you, Jug?” 

“Maybe,” he admits, with something of a bashful smile. “It was barely twenty-four hours ago that I saw you take out a man twice your size with a rolling pin—and in cutesy Christmas pajamas, no less. You’re more than a little intimidating.” 

Betty bites her lower lip. This isn’t the first time she’s been told she’s intimidating; in a situation like this, it usually lands as an insult, or a rejection. 

Something about the way Jughead says it makes it sound like a compliment. 

“We don’t have to do everything tonight,” she assures him. “We can take this as slow as you want.” 

“It is unlike me to put out on the first date,” Jughead jokes. Shaking his head, he pulls his hand out from under hers and strokes the side of her face. “No, what I want is for this to be good for you.” 

“It will be.” His touch is more assured now, but still gentle. She wants him to keep doing that forever, and she also wants him to stop doing that and kiss her again. “And if it’s not—” 

“I have no doubt you’ll let me know,” he says, chuckling a little. “As you should, of course.” 

.

.

.

Her cardigan hits the floor first, and then the long-sleeve t-shirt under it. Next to go is Jughead’s sweater; his undershirt lifts off at the same time, and by the time he’s pulled her close and kissed from her jawline to her breasts, she’s ready for both of their jeans to be discarded, too. 

“Bed,” she suggests, and in a surprising show of strength, Jughead sweeps her up and carries her into the next room. 

.

.

.

“Merry Christmas to me,” Betty says, when she finally sees Jughead in all his glory. She’s flat on her back in bed, and her whole body aches to be pressed against his, to feel his skin on hers, to— 

Jughead stops her internal monologue by slipping his fingers under the waistband of her cotton underwear, which are red and green and patterned with Christmas stockings. “And yet, you’re the one dressed like a present.” 

“For the record,” she says, shimmying her hips as Jughead peels her panties down, “I do own sexier lingerie.” 

“What do those have on them, elves? Candy canes?” He tosses the underwear aside and kneels over her. “Reindeer?” 

The answer is that those panties are red lace, but what she says is “Santa hats.” 

Jughead groans in mock torture. “You’re gonna kill me one way or the other, aren’t you?” he says, but then his expression turns serious, with a half-formed sentence waiting, unspoken, on his lips. 

“Jug?” she questions. 

“You’ve been taking care of me all month,” he says. “Let me return the favor?” 

A little thrill runs down Betty’s spine, and she nods.

.

.

.

He damn near turns her inside out. 

.

.

.

He doesn’t balk at her suggestion that he should stay the night, and he doesn’t balk at using her gingerbread cookie body wash or her vanilla-coconut shampoo. He just climbs under her piles of covers in his boxers. 

“Of course you have Christmas-themed flannel sheets,” he says, taking in the little snowmen. 

“Of course I do.” Betty cuddles herself against his side, taking a deep, happy breath as she settles in. “You smell like me.” 

“I do, don’t I?” He sounds pretty happy about it. “We both smell like cookies. It’s kind of making me hungry.” 

“I can bake you some tomorrow,” she offers. 

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“I know. But I want to.” She runs through her grandma’s recipe for gingerbread men in her mind, comparing the list of ingredients to the contents of her fridge and pantry. “I might have to run out for eggs and milk first.” 

“I’m sure there’s milk in our fridge,” Jughead says at once. “Kevin never lets us run out.” 

“What else do you want to do tomorrow, Jug?” 

He shrugs, then reaches over to turn off the bedside lamp. “Just spend it with you.” 

.

.

.

**(to be continued...)**


	5. three, b

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the delay in posting this last chapter. the fault is entirely syl's - life, y'know? thanks to stillscape for being so patient!! (and to you all!)

It’s a Wednesday evening in mid October, just over a month shy of the anniversary of their first meeting.  He and Kevin are setting up the quest for the evening’s Gryphons and Gargoyles activity, a grand adventure originally meant to be set in a real, actual forest but that has instead been adjusted and localized to the table in their shared kitchen.  Their friends - some ostensibly normal people who have been converted to their love of RPG, plus some dyed-in-the-wool nerds like Dilton Doiley who hadn’t needed a push - are on their way, along with pizza.

So is Betty. Jughead hasn’t been able to actually nudge her into playing G&G yet - probably won’t be able to ever, if he’s being honest with himself - but she’s taken to showing sometimes during their quests, bearing food and drink and encouragement and inadvertently proving to his assembled guests that Jughead Jones is somehow capable of snagging a girlfriend as great as Betty.

(Of all her appearances, the most memorable thus far has undoubtedly been the night that had ended with her straddling him on his bed, wearing only the faux-fur stole and the plastic crown from his costume, calling him  _ knight.  _  Realistically, he’d known he was in love with her not long after they’d officially started dating, but if he hadn’t yet been aware, it probably would have been this that sealed the deal.)

Today, she’s bringing fresh baked cookies to serve as dessert.  She hadn’t told him that in so many words, but he’d stepped into the hallway earlier to drop garbage down the chute and had caught a whiff of the unmistakable scent coming from the direction of her apartment. He  _ loves  _ her cookies. He can’t  _ wait.  _

But just as Jughead is about to inform Kevin of this good news, his roommate places a final game piece on the table, stands straight, and informs him, “Jug, I’m moving out.”

Jughead stops in his tracks. “What?”

Kevin grimaces. “I’ve been trying to find a good time to tell you this, but - yeah, Moose and I had a big talk this weekend, and we’ve decided to move in together.”

“Kev.” Jughead sets down the board he’s carrying. “That’s awesome! Congrats, man.” He embraces Kevin, then nudges him with his elbow. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Kevin shrugs apprehensively. “I - I don’t know. We’ve been roommates for so long. I didn’t want it to be like I was abandoning you to the wilds of Craigslist.”

“It isn’t,” Jughead insists. “I’m sure I can find someone decent.” 

Even as the words leave his mouth, Jughead knows it’s a lie. Finding a decent roommate in Chicago is undoubtedly going to be a nightmare, especially one who’s willing to put up with all of his nerdy hobbies and other idiosyncrasies. Not to mention a deceptively threatening girlfriend. Not that Betty’s over a  _ lot -  _ although they  _ do  _ probably spend five of seven nights together. Come to think of it ...

“Or you could just ask Betty to move in,” Kevin drops casually, arranging the game board that Jughead had set down. “You guys basically live together anyway.”

“We do not,” Jughead protests, rolling his eyes as though he hadn’t just been contemplating Kevin’s exact suggestion. 

“So she isn’t staying over tonight?”

Jughead makes a rude gesture at Kevin. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll stay there.”

“Good,” he replies, a teasing hint in his voice. “Saves me from walking in on something like I did last Friday.”

_ “Hey,”  _ Jughead cuts in. “You said we wouldn’t speak of it again.” 

_ It.  _ One of the more embarrassing moments in his and Kevin’s friendship, to be sure: when Kevin, tired and hungry, had arrived at their apartment to find Jughead and Betty tangled together on the couch, both of their shirts discarded on the floor and his hand inside her bra. In Jughead’s defense, it was past eleven, and he’d assumed that Kevin had gone to his boyfriend’s after working a long day, as had been his custom recently. He doesn’t just make a habit of foreplay in the common areas, or anything.

Kevin laughs. “I said I wouldn’t speak of it to  _ Betty,”  _ he corrects, which is true. She’d been quite embarrassed - Betty is many things, but an exhibitionist she is not - and once everyone had readjusted their clothing and apologies had been offered all around, Kevin had vowed politely that as far as their shared memories were concerned, nothing of the sort had ever occurred. Jughead knew better, of course, than to believe that it would extend to he and Kevin as well.

“I’m just sayin’, if you guys lived together, you’d save money, and you guys could fuck wherever you want to.”

“I’m changing the topic,” Jughead announces, his ears feeling warm.

There’s a knock on the door then, a blessing that Jughead immediately thanks the universe for, and he leaves a chuckling Kevin in the kitchen to go answer it.

It’s Betty, wearing a fitted grey sweater with a golden crown stitched on the front and bearing a plate of fresh-baked cookies, as he’d predicted. He stares at her.

“I can’t tell if I love the cookies or the shirt more.”

She grins and presses a kiss to his mouth. “They’re both for you.”

 

.

.

.

 

Jughead spends the week following Kevin’s declaration alternating between thinking,  _ I’m gonna do it, and she’s gonna say yes,  _ and worrying that she’ll be put off by his forward request. The idea of living with Betty is a lovely one: other than the fact that she’s now his favourite person, she’s also clean, organized, and would logistically probably make an excellent roommate. However, he also knows that she values space and privacy - there’s a reason, he thinks, that despite living in an expensive city she’s still decided to live alone.

Ultimately, he decides not to bring up the topic of them moving in together, at least not immediately. His relationship with Betty is probably the healthiest one he’s ever had with another person in his life, romantic or otherwise, and the idea of doing anything that might potentially ruin it is terrifying.

But then, on the following Thursday, eight days after game night, Jughead changes his mind.

He’s stretched out across Betty’s bed before dinner, naked, watching her get dressed after what had been a quick tryst post-work. She’s been working a divorce case, hired to acquire proof that a wealthy businessman has been cheating on his wife, and had finally managed to get set up as a temporary fill-in for his personal assistant while she was out with a sick child.  She’d spent the day following him from meeting to meeting in five-inch heels, bearing coffee and food (and messages, several of which had thankfully been from his mistress). What had started as an offer to rub Betty’s sore feet and calves had turned quickly into her pulling him into her bedroom and an eager and quick disrobing.

Now, she’s getting dressed again, and appears to be stuck in a decision between a lightweight sweater and one made of a heavier wool material. Betty finally turns to him, holding both of them, and asks, “Which one?”

Jughead shrugs. “Depends. The grey one looks warmer, but the blue one will be easier for me to take off later.”

Betty rolls her eyes and throws the blue shirt at his face; he catches it, laughing. “After we eat I have to go back out to see if I can get a photo of Reynolds leaving his mistress’s apartment. I got some good stuff today, but that’ll be the nail in his coffin.”

“Ah.” Jughead keeps his facial expression deliberately neutral. He refuses to complain about her odd hours - it’s part of her job, and the skills she’d learned for her job are really the reason they even met in the first place. He loves how driven and dedicated she is, how powerful and capable, and if that means that he’s lonely for another evening, he’ll deal with it.

“We’ll cuddle when I get home,” Betty promises, offering an apologetic smile. She kneels on the bed and crawls up to him, now wearing the wool sweater. “I know I’ve been gone a lot this week. I’m -”

He sits up and cuts her off with a kiss. “No apologies, Betts,” he says softly. “I understand.”

She presses her lips together and glances down at her hands. When she raises her eyes to meet his again, they’re shining with unmistakable gratitude. “I love you, you know?”

Jughead nods and kisses her again, this time weaving his hand into her hair. “I know,” he teases, lowering himself back on the mattress and bringing her with him. “I’m extremely lovable.” He slides his other hand down her back and squeezes her ass affectionately.

Betty giggles into his mouth and swats at his hand. “Jug, we have to eat, because I gotta go soon.”

He gently bites her earlobe. “Mm, I can think of something I’d like to eat.”

For a few more minutes, her body relaxes into his hands, and she lets out a long, happy-sounding sigh over his shoulder. Now that it’s top of mind, Jughead wants nothing more than to roll her onto her back and settle his face between her thighs, but he knows that she has commitments she wants to meet. He will not let himself be the thing that gets between her and what she wants. 

And right then, he realizes that likewise, he shouldn’t let himself - or his fears - become an obstacle to doing what  _ he  _ wants, either.

So he kisses her again, longer but softer than before, and lets his hands fall away. Pulling back from the kiss, Jughead rests his forehead against Betty’s, and murmurs, “Move in with me.”

Betty’s eyes fly open, but she doesn’t jerk away from him. “Move in?” she repeats, clutching his shoulder.

Jughead nods slightly and closes his eyes. She’s still so close to him; he can smell her shampoo. “Kevin’s moving in with his boyfriend. I know it’s … I don’t want to freak you out, so if it’s too soon and you don’t want to, or - even if you just … never want to - I promise you can say no and we can forget that I even asked.”

He’s still not looking at her, so when Betty presses a kiss to his mouth, it comes as a surprise. His eyes open, slowly, and he sees her smiling at him.

“I’m not freaked out, Jug.” 

He lets out a breath of relief. “No?”

Betty shakes her head, still smiling. “No. I’m surprised, but not freaked out. Can I think about it?”

“Sure,” Jughead replies automatically, happy that the answer isn’t an immediate  _ no.  _ Even if she does ultimately decline, he thinks, an informed, carefully weighed  _ no  _ will surely hurt less than a rash, instinctual  _ no. _

 

.

.

.

 

After she leaves, Jughead goes back to his apartment and showers, then grabs a set of new clothes for work the next morning and returns to Betty’s. He spends the evening making lesson plans for his first graders and occasionally texting her updates, mostly trying to figure out an age-appropriate way to explain the horrific complexities of the history of Thanksgiving to a bunch of six-year olds. Like every year, it proves to be a daunting task, and he retreats to the relatively easier goal of using decks of cards to teach addition and subtraction.

By the time he goes to sleep, around ten, Betty is still not back. Her hours are as unpredictable as ever, so he doesn’t bother to wait up for her. He sends off a quick text informing her that he’s going to bed, and is asleep before a response can come.

Jughead wakes a few hours later to dim light streaming from underneath the bathroom door. He forces his eyes to stay open so that he can watch as the light disappears and Betty tiptoes out, now wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of what he’d been delighted to discover months ago were old cheerleading shorts. She seems unaware that he’s awake, as she’s still trying not to make noise, so he clears his throat and sleepily says, “C’mere.”

Betty wrinkles her nose as she crawls into bed. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, tugging the covers up. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’all good,” he yawns, reaching for her beneath the blankets. He shifts over, presses a messy, tired kiss to her cheek, and lays beside her with his head beside her shoulder and an arm across her waist. “Did you get the photo?”

“Yep.” Her fingers begin to card through his hair. “Did you find a kid-friendly way to explain how the cultural genocide of Native Americans turned into us eating a bunch of turkey and then fighting each other over TVs at Wal-Mart?”

“Believe it or not, no,” he chuckles, yawning again. “Mm, that feels nice.”

“Good.” There’s a gentle press on his head that he imagines must be her lips, and then Betty’s voice, soothing and distant, imploring him to go back to sleep.

 

.

.

.

 

In the morning, Jughead catches his alarm before it goes off, then slips out of the bedroom and gets ready in the living room so that he doesn’t wake Betty. He combs his hair in the reflection of the powered-off television, then pads into the kitchen to make coffee.

She’s already gotten it ready for him, Jughead discovers, with a little sticky note that says “press me” on the ‘brew’ button of the coffeemaker. Nearby sits a chocolate-chip muffin on a plate, and beside that is another note. Jughead grabs the muffin and takes a big bite out of it before picking up the second note. While he reads it, his jaw slows, and a chunk of half-chewed muffin falls onto the floor.

**_Good morning, Juggie_ ** _ ,  _ she’s written.  **_Have a good day at work. Love, Betty._ **

And then, beneath it:  **_P.S. My rent is cheaper. I’ll make room in the closet._ **

  
  


.

**fin**

.

  
  



End file.
